Bremmil knew
it. She guessed--a woman's guess is much more accurate than a man's certainty-
-that he had meant to go from the first, and with Mrs. Hauksbee. She sat down
to think, and the outcome of her thoughts was that the memory of a dead child
was worth considerably less than the affections of a living husband.
She made her plan and staked her all upon it. In that hour she discovered that
she knew Tom Bremmil thoroughly, and this knowledge she acted on.
"Tom," said she, "I shall be dining out at the Longmores' on the evening of
the 26th. You'd better dine at the club."
This saved Bremmil from making an excuse to get away and dine with Mrs.
Hauksbee, so he was grateful, and felt small and mean at the same time--which
was wholesome. Bremmil left the house at five for a ride. About half-past five
in the evening a large leather-covered basket came in from Phelps' for Mrs.
Bremmil. She was a woman who knew how to dress; and she had not spent a week
on designing that dress and having it gored, and hemmed, and herring-boned,
and tucked and rucked (or whatever the terms are) for nothing. It was a
gorgeous dress--slight mourning. I can't describe it, but it was what The
Queen calls "a creation"--a thing that hit you straight between the eyes and
made you gasp.
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